


Not Just Their Knots

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Avengers UnPacked [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Omega Verse, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Well, okay, as long as we're having fun, let's keep the A/B/O playtime going!~~~“You’re both way above me,” chuckles Sam.  “I like that,” he adds, carefully.Harley sits very still and then, because this is a class, right, he’s supposed to talk, he says, “Oh?”“Yeah.  Most people don’t care who does the math, Harley, if it works, it works,” Sam tells him.“Yeah, maybe here, in New York,” mutters Harley, glaring at the couch back, picking at the stupid buttons.  What do those buttons even do?  What stupid fucking omega decided couches needed buttons, anyway?  Like putting lace on a pig.  “Not everywhere, though,” he sighs, glancing up at Sam.Sam looks back at him with a calm gaze and says, “Yeah, not everywhere.  Not Rose Hill?”Harley laughs just thinking about it, but it’s not a happy sound.  “No, not Rose Hill,” he agrees.“Well, here, I can tell you I like that you’re good at that kind of math, omega,” says Sam seriously, leaning in just a little.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Darcy Lewis/Jane Foster/Thor, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts, Tony Stark/Steve Rogers
Series: Avengers UnPacked [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623790
Comments: 16
Kudos: 120





	Not Just Their Knots

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is what happens when I read a recommended story that turns into reading TEN A/B/O fics, find out that there are no RULES for this shit, and decide, "Well, fuck it, if everyone's having fun in this sandbox, I'm going to, too."
> 
> You don't have to like it, I promise. But I had a whole lot of fun writing it.
> 
> Beta'd by my brave jf4m and mindwiped, who are easily the most courageous people on the planet, because I threw this at them and said JESUS CHRIST I DON'T EVEN KNOW. I'M SORRY, and then they corrected my spelling and caught my errors like the pros they are, anyway.
> 
> I've put links to the fics I read to learn about A/B/O in the end notes of the first story.
> 
> Every remaining mistake and all the broken things about the rules of this AU belongs to me. Me and 3 AM, baby.

Peter is so omega he’s excited to do the dishes, clearing the table and sliding them into the dishwasher with little chirpy happy noises he’s probably not even aware he’s making, it’s disgustingly domestic. Harley snorts as everyone dissipates off to whatever work or training they’re going to try to squeeze in before the big team meeting scheduled for 9:30. 

Sam looks over at him and says, “No time like the present, pup.”

Harley nods, because that’s true, and slides a seat closer to his heatpartner. Sam must be able to tell that he’s nervous, because he slings an arm around Harley and says, “Let’s move to the couch. Peter, you come join us when you’re done in here, I could use some help explaining things from your side.”

Peter nods happily, like he does _literally everything_ , it’s absolutely disgusting how happily-denned-omega he is once the Tower doors close. It’s _pornographic_ how happily-denned-omega he is. Harley is going to sell videos and make his first million, he swears. Clint’ll probably help him.

Sam pulls him down onto the sectional, forcing Harley to recline in a position facing him. Harley goes where he’s pushed and pulled with huffs of air so that the beta knows he’s only doing it under protest. Sam’s lips are twitching as he sits back and says, “Thank you so much, Harley. Good of you to behave.”

Harley glowers at him and says, “Okay, so, I’m here, I need to learn stuff so stuff like last night don’t happen, I get it, so teach me, already. I got work to do before the meeting.”

“I doubt that,” laughs Sam easily, head tilting. “But this is a good starting point. Harley, what kind of work do you like to do?”

Harley shifts, because what does that have to do with self-defense? “I like working with my hands,” he tells the man gruffly. “I like fixing stuff, making it work better, work faster. I like _metal._ ”

Sam nods encouragement and Harley remembers the man is his heat-partner, remembers the way the man had held him, kissed him, in sharp flashes, and feels awkward about feeling resentful towards him. “I like,” he ventures, cautiously, because Sam was there for him, he can try not to be such a jerk, “I guess I like the math, too.”

“The math?” asks Sam, simply interested, not judging.

“Yeah,” says Harley defensively, shoulders hunching just in case the beta is going to make fun of him. “I’m good at it, too,” he bursts out, when Sam says nothing for a long moment. “It’s not easy, all the math you gotta do to make something work right the first time, but I’m good at it, Tony says that, he lets me check his math sometimes, too.”

“And you like it,” prompts Sam, with a kind expression on his face.

“Yeah,” agrees Harley, a little less wary, if Sam is gonna be kind about it, an _omega_ liking _math_. 

“Peter likes math, too,” muses Sam.

Harley blows out a breath, relaxing a little more. “Yeah, I know,” he says, “Peter’s real good with math, too. So’s Tony. Peter’s math is more, like, mine is more angles and stuff, and his is more chemicals, but he can help me with mine, sometimes, and he has me check his out, too, if Bruce isn’t there.”

“You’re both way above me,” chuckles Sam. “I like that,” he adds, carefully.

Harley sits very still and then, because this is a class, right, he’s supposed to talk, he says, “Oh?”

“Yeah. Most people don’t care who does the math, Harley, if it works, it works,” Sam tells him.

“Yeah, maybe here, in New York,” mutters Harley, glaring at the couch back, picking at the stupid buttons. What do those buttons even do? What stupid fucking omega decided couches needed buttons, anyway? Like putting lace on a pig. “Not everywhere, though,” he sighs, glancing up at Sam.

Sam looks back at him with a calm gaze and says, “Yeah, not everywhere. Not Rose Hill?”

Harley laughs just thinking about it, but it’s not a happy sound. “No, not Rose Hill,” he agrees.

“Well, here, I can tell you I like that you’re good at that kind of math, omega,” says Sam seriously, leaning in just a little. 

Harley nods, swallowing.

“So tell me why you don’t like it that Peter also likes traditional omega things?” asks Sam, like that’s a question a beta can just ask an omega like Harley.

Harley snorts. “I dunno,” he says, picking at the button again. “Just, he’s Spiderman, you know, he shouldn’t- shouldn’t be so weak when the doors close.”

“What do you mean by weak?” asks Sam, and it’s not, he’s not being mean, it doesn’t feel like a trap, so Harley tells him, “You know, fluttering around, making a happy home, waiting for an alpha to show up and tell him good job, that kind of stuff.”

“That feels weak to you?” asks Sam.

“I mean, it don’t feel _strong_ ,” says Harley authoritatively. He doesn’t know much, obviously, but he knows that.  
  
“Hm,” says Sam. Just that, just _hm_.

Harley rolls his eyes and mutters, “What’s that mean?”

“Well, let’s talk about that later. What do you know about gender?” he says, switching subjects. Harley sits back a little and racks his brain. 

“Uh, you’re born with it,” he supplies. “And, uh, there’s mainly just the two. Male and female, although there’s a whole bunch of extras, like, like maybe we’re supposed to have a third gender but it’s not done figuring it out yet. My science teacher said that one time. That you can have all these other things that are in between.”

“Well, okay, I am actually impressed with someone else from Rose Hill, Tennessee,” teases Sam. “That’s one smart science teacher. She say anything else?”

“He,” corrects Harley, smiling. “Beta. And he might’ve, but that’s about all I remember.”

“Well, _he_ was right, there’s a gender binary, for the most part. What did _he_ have to say about breed?”

“Oh,” says Harley, forehead furrowing. “Just that breed was definitely three. There’s alpha, beta, and omega, and you’re born with it but it’s not, uh, settled until, you know, you change into it, get your scent. Or your not-scent,” he adds, gesturing at Sam.

“Yeah, scent’s a large part of your life, isn’t it, you omegas and alphas,” chuckles Sam. “You find it hard to adjust to being able to smell things, pick things up that way?”

“I mean, no?” frowns Harley, thinking back, remembering how it had just been neat, like a trick, to smell the scents a little sharper and be able to tell more than just what kind of thing the person’s scent reminded him of. “Should I’ve?” 

“No, I just always wondered,” says Sam easily, and Harley relaxes again. “All I can tell, with this broken schnoz, is that you smell like sweet pineapples most of the time.”

Harley blushes, because Sam was his _heatpartner_ , okay? He heard a _lot_ from Sam, most of which he doesn’t remember, about how sweet he smelled, that’s all. “Oh yeah,” chuckles Sam, clearly thinking along the same lines, if the twinkle in his eye is anything to go by. “Especially then.” 

Harley rolls his eyes. “So, okay, but my teacher said your noses weren’t broken, they just didn’t have the instinct thing,” he accuses Sam, pointing at Sam’s nose. “Like, there’s nothing wrong with it, you could pick up the same stuff, it’s just you don’t have that part of your brain that can identify it.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise. “That is not in the normal curriculum.”

“Well, some of the know-not-new-knots were being jerks about it and he had to shut them up,” mutters Harley. “Talkin’ about how, well, nevermind. Anyway, that was my fault, I shouldn’t have tried to go to school.” He glowers back at the button, tapping it again.

“Maybe not in Rose Hill,” agrees Sam. “Rose Hill doesn’t seem like the kind of place that would know what to do with Tony, don’t you think?”

Harley tries to picture it, and snorts. “Didn’t know what to do with him the last time he stopped by, that’s for sure.”

“So it’s not a surprise they didn’t know what to do with you, then.” Sam’s eyes are kind again, doing that thing they do when he’s thinking Lord knows what. Harley shifts under them.

“No, I guess not,” he tells Sam. Lots of people don’t know what to do with him.

“So let’s talk about these know-not-new-knots,” says Sam, his tongue twisting around the phrase that is clearly not common in New York like it is in Rose Hill. Harley winces. He definitely doesn’t want to do that. The less said about them, the better.

“Can we not?” he asks Sam. “Can we just talk, like, about Steve?”

“Sure,” Sam agrees easily. “Let’s talk about Steve.”

Peter comes into the room and flops down on the couch beside Sam, pushing slightly until the other man shifts and slides Peter into his arms. “What’re we saying about Steve?” he says brightly.

“Well, let’s talk about how alphas get their knots,” says Sam, like that’s a normal topic of conversation.

“Oh,” says Peter, his brow furrowing just a little, shooting Harley a heated glance. “Uh, because that’s kind of a private thing. You know.” Harley rolls his eyes at Peter and Peter grimaces back at him. This is so fucking awkward, the whole thing. This is worse than Harley thought it would be. It’s like one part quiz and two parts embarrassment.

“Oh, I don’t mean how they knot during sex,” laughs Sam. “That’s, I mean, go watch porn, boys. The internet _exists_. I mean, biology, why three breeds? Where does that come from?”

“Oh!” says Peter, brightening. “Oh, that’s good, I know that one. I mean, it’s all theories, right? But my favorite one is that originally, there were just two breeds, just alpha and omega, right? Because they’re the opposites, the same way male and females are opposites, right?”

Harley nods, because that makes a lot of sense, so far.

“And then, you know, mutations, genetic drift, selection,” says Peter and Harley’s lost, the mute-what-now? What kinda drift? Selection of what? Peter must read the confusion off of his face because he waves his hand and says, “Anyway, that’s all science stuff that means, like, it’s just natural that eventually someone would whelp some baby that was missing stuff to make it alpha or omega. It works, though, turns out we needed something else, a like, a buffer, and then you get betas.”

Harley nods. “Yeah, that sounds right. Two sets of opposites, and then this one set has this other stuff in between.”

“Well, speaking as the beta in the room, that’s not the most flattering theory, and I’ve heard others, where _we_ were the first kind and then _you_ developed out of us,” points out Sam and Harley nods, because he’s heard that, too, the preacher sure liked to yell about that blasphemy in church on Sunday. Peter nods about this, too. “It’s all possible,” he says, unhelpfully. “Science is still working on it. There’s even theories that there’s always been three, for diversity, to make us better able to respond to environmental threats. I mean if we hadn’t always had three, what would the cavemen have done during heat or ruts? _Someone_ has to bring the food,” says Peter reasonably. Harley can see that. He decides that’s his favorite theory, that there’s always been three. It just makes sense, everyone having a place and a purpose.

“So what sets alphas apart from betas and omegas?” asks Sam curiously. “What makes them different?”

“Oh, lots,” says Peter. “Not just their knots,” he says firmly, glaring up at Sam. Sam chuckles and concedes defeat, holding out an open palm for Peter to continue. “I mean, there’s so much,” says Peter, “But what you can tell right away is they’re driven to protect and to defend. They’ve got just incredible adrenaline responses, their musculoskeletal structure is just athletic, super-athletic, and their metabolism is out of this world, the amount of calories they eat in a day equals what a pregnant omega needs!”

“Isn’t metabolism the thing that makes you skinny?” asks Harley, thinking of Mr. Abrahams and how everyone who never even met him in the limo already knew he was fat.

“Sure,” says Peter happily. “Or fat. There’s tons of research into how when an alpha loses too much status too quickly their metabolism just completely tanks and it’s like their body is trying to develop curves. Curves like an omega,” he says with a smug smile. “It’s like their body says ‘have you tried switching breeds, though, maybe you’re a lover, not a fighter?’ Same thing when they don’t have much contact with other alphas, they just kind of start to blend in with all the beta and omega bodies around them.”

Harley wonders which thing Mr. Abrahams had. Given the man’s sullen attitude and how his work put him in contact with young knotheads in large groups on a daily basis, probably not the second category. He winces. Poor Mr. Abrahams. Although maybe that would explain why the alpha’s scent has not been, uh, _enticing_.

“Adrenaline responses,” muses Sam. “What’s that mean?”

Harley snorts because that’s such an obvious tactic, it’s clear the man already knows, but Peter smiles brightly and says, “Oh, it’s like if you or I were walking around with an exposed nerve ending,” he reports. “They’re always on the edge of a fight. Well, almost always.”

“Always?” asks Harley in a quiet voice.

“Well, yeah,” says Peter awkwardly. “They’ve got, I mean, the adrenaline response, they’re built for fighting, Harley. Fighting, hunting, they can’t help it. They go from zero to sixty so fast, it’s crazy, you should get Bruce to show you with, like, Natasha or something. Not Steve, and not Thor.”

“But-” says Harley, and then presses his lips together.

“But what,” prompts Sam gently. Peter tilts his head and blinks. Harley feels like an idiot, but that’s what he’s here for, right? Everyone already knows what he doesn’t know.

“But they _don’t_ fight,” says Harley slowly. “Most of the time, anyway,” he concedes, thinking of that crazy afternoon, walking to town, and the tree.

“Yeah, I mean, there’s no need to, is there?” asks Peter. “Not anymore, not the same way there used to be, back when we were in like, caves and stuff, or even just a few centuries ago, before guns and stuff. So it’s, like, just a hold over. Mostly.” 

“But they walk around wanting to?” asks Harley plaintively, looking between Peter and Sam’s faces.

“No, not wanting to,” drawls Sam, “it’s like you with heat. Did you want to go into heat, or did it just sort of happen?”

Harley and Peter both laugh. “Uh, yeah, no, you don’t want heat,” splutters Peter. “It totally, oh, God, Harley, can you imagine?”

“You don’t _want_ heat,” agrees Harley, blushing a bit because Peter’s blushing, too. “Gross.”

“Definitely gross,” says Peter, and he’s blushing so hard Harley can smell a little embarrassed marshmallow from feet away. It smells… gooey. 

“Well, there you go. They don’t want to fight, either, but it’s built in, the same way your heat is built in to you,” says Sam equitably.

“Oh,” says Harley, trying the idea on. “I mean, I heard about how they kill people all the time,” he tells the other two seriously. “My mom’s a nurse, I heard about how alphas hurt people real bad every day.”

“Every day,” agrees Peter soberly. “They can’t help it. If something happens that trips up the adrenaline, they just respond. Defend or die. Protect or perish.”

Harley thinks about that. “Damn,” he says, in a hushed tone of voice. “I mean, I almost feel sorry for the knotheads now.”

“Well, so, part of living and not getting killed by an adrenaline-hopped alpha,” says Sam wryly, “is learning how to work with their cultural conditioning.”

“Their what?” asks Harley, brow furrowed.

“It’s like, all the stuff we do that signals to their hindbrains that they don’t need to fight,” explains Peter easily. “So like, when you bare your throat to an angry alpha, they calm right down. Same thing with sliding to your knees, it helps, it helps them see you as a non-combatant, not a threat. They’re so amped up sometimes, it doesn’t work, but if they’re not there, yet, that kind of stuff can help so much.”

“A good half of alpha management,” says Sam, lips twitching, “is getting them to see you as a non-combatant, as a non-threat. That’s the best thing an omega can do. The SWAT team in every city comes with omega negotiators, who get sent in just to try to calm down the guy going off.”

“What’s the other half?” asks Harley shrewdly.

“More complicated,” sighs Sam, and Peter snorts, nodding agreement. “Peter, why do you think alphas knot in the first place?” asks Sam and jeez, he’s sure hung up on the knot, for a guy who doesn’t slick, snickers Harley very quietly in his head.

“Oh, so, that’s the best part, the whole heat thing!” says Peter, and he like, bounces a little. What a complete dork. “So, Harley, I have no idea but it doesn’t seem like anyone told you about heats, like you didn’t go to heat class or anything, learn about it?”

Harley shakes his head, trying to picture what life must _be_ like for kids in the big city. There’s _classes_ on _heat?_

“So, okay, beta females and sometimes alpha females can carry babies, too, right? It’s not all just omegas. _But_ , the average female womb can only carry one, maybe two babies safely, and anything bigger than that gets really tricky.” Harley’s brow furrows because, sure, he knew that, kinda. He’s heard stories. Ms. Jensen’s sister even died, just having one baby, it had been a shame, really, everyone said if she hadn’t been an alpha, she’d have lived. “But an omega’s body is different, Harley, we’re, uh, more elastic, kinda. We can carry more, and we’re designed to. And science thinks our heats came first, because we don’t, I mean, female wombs just release the one egg every cycle, right?”

Harley shrugs. Sure, whatever. That sounds right. “But we release, like, a bunch, Harley, enough for the average litter to be four, and it can go as high as seven before it gets dangerous. So heats were like this timeframe, when omegas used to try to get, uh,” he starts blushing and looking anywhere not at the two of them, “well, get as many different partners as they could. Which, I mean, heat, you feel that way, right? You feel like you want as many different partners as you can handle, even if you have an alpha. But alphas developed the knots to kind of, like, make it so you just have the one, so that it’s more likely you’re just carrying their whelps.” He shifts, squirming, and Harley can 100% agree, this is gross, but it’s fascinating, too.

“Oh,” says Harley, as about a dozen jokes suddenly make sense. He frowns. “So heat is our biological thing, and knots and adrenaline are theirs?”

“Kinda,” agrees Peter. “But there’s more. They get alpha voice and we get omega voice.”

“Boy, do you ever,” chuckles Sam.

“Mine came in just before you got here,” says Peter, shyly. 

“It sure did, ommy,” agrees Sam, kissing Peter’s temple. “Clint about swallowed his tongue.”

“Well, I know about alpha voice,” says Harley. “Everyone knows about that. They got that tone- we all just respond.”

“That’s definitely programmed in,” sighs Peter. “Because their job is to protect and defend, and we, I mean, we all would have needed to listen to them, in a fight or an emergency. But we get a voice, too, Harley. I know you’ve heard Tony use it on Steve.”

Harley thinks about it and nods. “That’s the drippy one?” he sneers. “The one that’s all sugar sweet, obnoxious?”

Peter shifts and looks up at Sam uncertainly. “I mean, not _drippy,_ ” he protests. “God, everything with you is _drippy_ this or _drippy_ that. You know that’s insulting to _you_ , right? That _you_ drip now?”

Harley bristles and says, “Not like that, I don’t.”

Sam smiles over at him and says, “A little bit, you do.” Harley feels a blush creep up his cheeks and he shifts under it.

“Anyway,” says Peter, obviously not over it yet, “no, it’s not drippy, it’s soothing, it’s like, you’ve seen how Nat and Steve respond to it, how Thor acts when Jane uses it, they just go all-”

“Horny,” snorts Harley, at the same time as Sam suggests, “docile.”

“Yeah,” sighs Peter. “They _like_ it, it _relaxes_ them. Steve said one time it was like he went through his whole adult life ready to fight the next guy just for breathing and then Tony purred his name and he could stand there and listen to the whole world breathe.”

“Well,” says Harley, uncomfortable with that image, “why don’t we just do that every time they get mad at us, then?”

Peter laughs. “Uh, because you’re not wrong, Harley, it also, uh, I mean it soothes until it _excites_. And omegas have diapers to change and dishes to do and, I mean, I’ve got _projects_ , Harley. I don’t want some hornball knothead interrupting me every five minutes.”

Harley snorts. “I mean, you walk around barefoot, Peter. Kinda seems like you wouldn’t mind it so much.”

“Whoa,” says Sam, lowly, as Peter rears back like he’s been slapped. “That’s a whole lot of judgement there.”

Peter looks up at Sam and says, firmly, “What I do is up to me. If it makes you uncomfortable, you gotta say something so I know. Nobody else here minds.”

Harley feels guilty, feels something else, too, something that makes him say, “Well, I mean, of course they wouldn’t.”

“Okay, no, stop,” says Sam firmly. “Let’s address this right now, I’ve been wondering what was going on. Harley, you seem to be laboring under some impressions that are just _wrong_ . That’s why you need this talk, and all the rest of them we’re going to have. You’re undersocialized, which means you don’t know how to work what you’ve got with what the rest of the world has. And you kind of hate omegas, which is concerning because you _are_ an omega, Harley.”

“What?” gasps Harley. “I don’t- I don’t hate omegas!”

“You kinda do,” says Peter, his voice resentful. “You kind of think everything omega is drippy and dumb. You think omega voice is _obnoxious_ , when it’s just, it’s just a mechanism, it’s just a thing we do to help our alphas, Harley. You hate when me or Jane do what feels right to us.”

“Do what _is_ right for you,” corrects Sam, looking down at Peter with a fond smile. “There’s nothing wrong with being omega, with wanting omega things. It’s good, it helps everybody, when you’re as omega as you _want_ to be. Why wouldn’t we support you to be whatever it is you want to be?”

Peter nods back and then glares over at Harley. “So, yeah, you totally hate omegas and it’s super obvious and it’s _gross_ , Harley.”

Harley realizes he crossed his arms at some point, but he’s not uncrossing them. “What’s _gross_ is fawning up at Natasha and Thor and Steve all the time, walking around like an intro to a porn video, playing at making a happy little nest in the kitchen, it’s _gross_ , Peter.”

Peter looks up at Sam and says, “I don’t have to sit here for this.”

“If you stay, it might help him, though,” says Sam seriously. Harley snorts. “But yeah, he’s being rude as fuck and _wrong_ , if you want to go, go get Tony.”

Peter nods and actually gets up and _leaves_. Harley snorts, and glares at the damn buttons again.

“Why is all that gross, Harley?” asks Sam softly. “Why is that list bad?”

Harley shifts. 

“Because I know, I mean, we joke about omega lib, but omegas used to be _on_ _leashes_ , Harley. They used to be on leashes, and forced to do things they didn’t want to do, forced into bedrooms and kitchens, kept bred and locked away from the world-”

“Yeah, and here he is, acting like he wants that back,” says Harley hotly. “You can’t have it both ways, Sam.”

“Oh,” says Sam quietly. He sits still for a couple of long moments and then asks, “Why not?”

“What?!” yelps Harley, uncrossing his arms to stare at Sam in shock. Sam looks back, eyes kind and gentle and asks, “Why not, Harley. Why can’t you have everything? Why can’t you have a job and when you get home, wash some dishes with a smile on your face? Why can’t you enjoy being told you’re doing a good job and also earn a paycheck _doing a good job_ , Harley?”

Harley shifts uncomfortably as Tony trots into the room. “I hear we’re insulting drippy omegas. I’m in. God, some of them wear dresses, you know? I mean, I rock a killer ballgown but a _house_ _dress and pearls_?” He mocks a shudder. “I mean, they should all get raped, don’t you think, Harley?”

Harley gasps and says, “Tony, what?”

“Well, that’s what stuff like that is all about, right?” says Tony, like he’s being reasonable. “Oooh, he’s got bare feet, in the kitchen, baking cookies, he’s just asking for it- asking for an alpha to walk by and rape him, right?” He flops down on the ottoman across from the couch and tilts his head at Harley. “Right?” he repeats innocently.

Harley shifts, “No, that’s not-” but, he realizes, it kind of _is_.

“Well, I mean, knotheads,” scoffs Tony, “they see something like that, it’s not even their fault, they can’t control themselves. Some drippy omega acting like that, it’s not even the alpha’s fault they rape him.”

“Tony, no,” protests Harley, his stomach twisting. “That’s not-”

“Oh, it is, though, Harley,” Tony assures him, eyes flashing. “That’s exactly what you think. I know hicks, I’ve been avoiding them my whole adult life, because they think like that. Either they want me fat with babies under Steve’s thumb, mindlessly submissive, or they want me raped in the city square for what I’m wearing or how I’m talking. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Harley shakes his head. “It’s not-”

“Peter likes baking. He likes cooking. It’s a kind of chemistry he can relate to, because of what he does in the labs, Harley. And even if it wasn’t, even if he just wanted to cook, just liked baking, I’d love it, I’d want him to do it exactly as much as he wanted to do it. The pup works hard, Harley. He has a hard life, he gives saving the world a lot of his time and effort and energy, and if he wants to walk around here without a stitch on, I’m _buying_ _curtains_ ,” says Tony firmly. “And if you were any kind of packsib, you’d be working on supporting him in whatever he wanted to do instead of making him feel like shit.”

Harley can feel tears well up. “I just-” he starts, but then he stops because he just _what._

“Yeah, you just don’t know how the world actually works,” snorts Tony. “Actually, there’s millions of people out there who are offended that you like the workshop, Harley, who would cheerfully toss you into a dress and make you grow your hair long and who would use your body against you at the first chance. That’s reality. That’s what you’re agreeing should happen when you walk around saying Peter should cover up his feet or he’s _asking_ for something. And you know what? They’re _wrong_ , Harley. Peter is Spiderman, and the world _needs_ Spiderman. And omegas like making their dens comfortable, like taking care of people, that’s built-in. You haven’t been around here for my pre-heat but I bake like crazy and I made that quilt on your bed, and I’m not having you say that me liking those things is wrong. It’s not _wrong_ , Harley. I can do whatever the hell I want to do, and none of it is _wrong_. Or _drippy_ ,” he adds viciously, glaring at Harley some more.

Harley’s so choked up he can’t say anything in his own defense into the silence.

“I mean, a little harsher than what I was gonna go for,” sighs Sam. “But essentially, yes. Peter is safe here, Harley, and so are you. So is Tony. So are Jane and Bruce. You can do _whatever_ you want to do, whatever it is, and we like it. We like that you’re an omega, we think it’s good, the same way we like that Nat, Thor, and Steve are alphas and think they’re good, too. Steve likes to punch a punching bag, and you don’t hear us saying it’s because he can’t handle anything but mindless violent repetition, do you?” Harley shakes his head viciously. “That’s right. Steve’s allowed to be just as smart as he wants to be, he’s allowed to like drawing and reading books, learning about things. And you’re allowed to walk around in bare feet without anyone thinking you’re asking for anything.”

Harley can feel himself tremble, just a bit, and the tears he’s blinking back are filling up too rapidly to actually be blinked back, they’re going to spill, he knows it.

“Harley,” says Tony, leaning in, touching Harley’s knee. “There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with being an omega, with wanting omega things. Don’t believe all the bullshit you’ve heard your whole life from those dumbass hicks. Wearing a dress doesn’t mean you’re weak and needy. It means you like wearing dresses. I rock an awesome ballgown from time to time because I want to, I love the way it feels. And I’m still the most dangerous person in any room where Steve’s not standing there, being him with a hair trigger temper he keeps locked down tight. Being omega doesn’t mean you have to shut yourself off from anything. That’s, that’s literally what omega lib fought for, is still fighting for. Modern omegas don’t have to choose biology over what they’re interested in. We can do _both_.”

Harley swipes at his cheeks and crosses his arms again. “I never said you couldn’t,” he croaks.

“Yeah, no, you just said Peter’s drippy for pretty much everything omega that he likes doing,” points out Sam. “You just said he’s asking for sex by walking around without slippers.”

“Asking for _rape_ ,” argues Tony. “Because he’s not looking for sex, walking around barefoot, is he, Harley? He doesn’t want sex, he just wants to feel comfortable in his own den. So it’d be _rape_.”

Harley gasps, trying not to burst into actual tears. 

“And if I had to guess,” Tony says in a mocking tone, “I’d _guess_ that there’s some drippy omega stuff that you’d like to do, that you’ve always wanted to do. That you’d like to kick off your shoes a little, smile up at Natasha and have her nuzzle in, and that you’re not letting yourself because you’re worried that all the things you’ve been saying and thinking about omegas your whole life are true.”

“They’re not,” says Sam firmly, and Harley lets out a short sob, he can’t help it, it’s that or not breathe. “There’s not a single alpha or beta here who looks at Peter or Tony in the kitchen and thinks they have a right to fuck them.”

“Not even Steve, with me. Not even Thor, with Jane, or Nat with Bruce,” says Tony firmly. “Not even the mates walk around here thinking their mated omegas are sluts who are just dripping for their knot, and every sweet thing they do to make this place pleasant is an invitation to bend them over the counter. And you know what? In your hick town, there were people who knew that, too, probably most of the alphas and omegas in town knew that.”

Harley thinks of Mr. and Mrs. Jensen, immediately. He can’t picture Mr. Jensen ever, you know, acting like that, acting like the alphas in the movies, in the stuff online. He always treats Mrs. Jensen like she’s- like Steve with Tony, actually. Exactly like Steve with Tony. _Oh._

Harley sniffles. 

“Yeah, so, give,” presses Tony. “Tell me one omega thing you want to do today that was too _drippy_ for you, a half-hour ago.”

Harley shakes his head and Tony leans in and says, in that syrupy sweet voice, that omega voice, Harley realizes, “C’mon, pup, tell Omega. One thing you want to do that you thought you couldn’t.”

Harley lets loose a little whine, and Tony shifts, lifting Harley’s legs to slide under them, lifting _Harley_ to sit on his lap, wrapping his arms around Harley and murmuring, in that soft tone, “C’mon, pup, tell Omega.”

“I hate shoes,” bursts Harley, tossing his head because that stupid _voice_. “I hate ‘em.” He kicks his slippered foot against the ottoman where Tony had been sitting.

“Yeah, me too,” chuckles Tony, his voice sliding back into its normal range. “So let’s kick out of ‘em today, gonna be strategizing, don’t need to be in the workshop.”

“Steve’ll love it,” sighs Harley, rubbing his slippers against the surface of the ottoman.

“Yes, he will,” says Sam, quietly, and Harley glances over at him. Sam’s face is open and honest and so kind, again, as he says, “Steve will absolutely love it. We all will. But you watch, he won’t respect Tony less because of it.”

Tony snorts, “He can _try_.” Harley gives a watery smile in the direction of the ottoman.

“I should, I should say sorry to Peter,” he says, finally, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t- I was rude.”

“You sure were,” agrees Tony. “That’s not how we talk to our packsibs around here.”

“But I think he understands, a little, where it’s coming from,” says Sam, still so quiet, still so kind.

“I don’t want to be like them,” scowls Harley fiercely.

“So _don’t_ ,” Tony challenges him. “ _Think_ about what you say and how you treat the people around you.”

“We’re right here, if you need help,” agrees Sam. “You’re not going to do anything alone, Pack means you don’t have to do anything alone.”

“I thought we weren’t a Pack,” sneers Harley, because he just can’t _stop_ today, apparently.

“Oh, we’re a Pack, they’re not just fashionable right now, because those dumb knotheads who want omegas on leashes doubled down on the traditional words and we’re still sorting out what’s healthy, as a society,” says Tony. Which, yeah, Harley grew up with the Whites and the McCleary’s up in the hills of Rose Hill, he knows about old-style Packs and how dangerously dumb they are. Half of the half-dead omegas and kids that come through his mama’s ER have a last name of White or McCleary. “So we’re a team, a modern word, a healthy word, but the biology is still the same.” His voice sneers a little on the terms modern and healthy, but Harley gets it. You can put a chicken in a dress, it’s still gonna lay eggs and not diamonds.

“And I am all about correcting you when you fuck up,” says Tony cheerfully. “I live for it, you want to talk about omega aptitudes, I was _made_ for helping you grow by pointing out where you’re fucking up.”

“That’s not an omega aptitude,” sighs Sam. “That’s a _jerk_ , you’re confused, it’s a _jerk_ aptitude.”

“No, pretty sure helping the young get their heads on straight is an omega thing,” argues Tony, false innocence choking his tone and making Harley chuckle.

“Not the way you do it, Tony, Jesus, it’s like an air strike,” Sam laughs.

“Shoes off,” declares Tony, kicking his own slippers off eagerly, sighing. Harley stills, and then slowly slides his left one, followed by his right, to drop down on top of Tony’s. He doesn’t sigh, but he does stretch them a bit. It feels good, it feels nice. He slots a glance over at Sam and Sam raises an eyebrow back at him.

“Oh, your toes, Harley,” he deadpans, face straight although his eyes are twinkling a little. “Your toes, I must have you.”

Harley snorts, and wiggles back into Tony a little. 

“Give yourself to me, omega,” teases Sam in that same deadpan tone, leaning forward to nuzzle Harley’s shoulder. “I must have you, your toes.”

“Okay, stop,” snorts Harley, batting at the beta, pushing him back. “I got it.”

“Go, bake me cookies,” demands Sam, poking Harley in the side. “Give me many fat babies, because _your toes,_ Harley.”

“Okay, I got it,” yelps Harley. “I got it.”

“Let’s go find Peter and let him know you got it, now,” says Tony quietly, into his ear, rubbing their cheeks together just a bit, scenting the air around Harley with pride-comfort-vanilla. “You don’t have to do it alone, I’ll be right there with you. That’s what team means.”

“Yeah, okay,” sighs Harley. 

“You’re a good pup,” says Sam, and Harley closes his eyes a little and just, just lets himself feel a little proud, because it’s _okay_ to. Tony says it’s okay, Sam says it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt Peter or Jane or Bruce. He’s heard Steve say stuff like that to Tony and Tony didn’t, uh, it didn’t hurt Tony, either. 

“Yeah,” says Tony. “Go ahead, pup. That’s so good, too. Being an omega isn’t always just bullshit. There’s some good stuff, too, and we want you to have that, here.”

“We didn’t, didn’t work much on self-defense,” protest Harley, grabbing for anything to delay the inevitable awkwardness with Peter. He’s pretty sure he’s older than Peter, but it doesn’t _feel_ like that, around here. Not that it matters. Peter scented first, Harley’s the lowest on the totem pole around here, unless someone does decide to start whelping. Tony and Steve are always teasing about it, anyway. So maybe it’s okay that Harley’s messing up and having to apologize to Peter, maybe that’s just, like, hierarchy playing out.

“We worked enough, this is all part of that. Now you know about adrenaline, and why it was so important that you slid to your knees for Steve last night. That’s a good start,” says Sam firmly. “And we’re nowhere near done. We’ll talk more tomorrow, before you hit the workshop and I go down with Tony for practice.”

Tony nods firmly and says, “Okay, but now, we walk -barefoot!- to find Peter and explain how we don’t slut shame anymore because we all know better.”

Harley squirms, but stands when Tony pushes him up. He kind of clings to Tony a bit, but Tony said he could do whatever he wants, so he tries not to care too much about what it might look like.

“I sent him to Steve, you gonna panic if Steve gets a look at your ankles?” teases Tony. “Might send him straight into rut, they’re nice ankles and he’s such a helpless alpha.”

Harley pushes him and says, “Shut up.”

Tony laughs. “Well, it’s just, he’s a lot for one omega. I could use a break. If you flashing your ankles riles him up, you gotta deal with him, is all I’m saying.”

“Tony,” whines Harley. “Knock it off.”

“Just managing expectations,” laughs Tony, putting one hand on the door to his bedroom and pressing it open.

Harley swallows, because Peter is curled into Steve on the bed, watching a movie on a screen. Steve pauses the movie and Peter buries his face further in Steve’s chest, obviously upset and not wanting to face them. “Make ‘em go away,” Peter whines at Steve. “He’s an asshole.”

“Language,” growls Steve, and Peter flinches just a little, wiggling more.

“I’ll language you,” laughs Tony. “Harley’s here to say sorry, Peter,” he announces, pushing Harley in front of him, keeping his hands on Harley’s shoulder.

“I am sorry,” huffs Harley. “Look, we took off our shoes.”

“You what?” grumbles Peter, lifting his head to glare at Harley. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? Wait, did you just leave them in the living room?”

“Uh,” says Harley. That did not go as planned. “I mean, so they- I had some wrong ideas,” he confesses quickly. “And, yes, I’ll go clean them up, I know that’s a thing for you and Jane, I’ll go clean them up, promise, but I had some wrong ideas and I wanted to say sorry and say I’m working on it.” Peter says nothing in response, just rubs his cheek against Steve’s chest, eyes wide, so Harley tells him, “I want you to be happy, do to- whatever- makes you happy, and I’m working on the asshole stuff, I promise. Sam and Tony’ll help me.”

“Language,” growls Steve again, and Harley rolls his eyes as Tony snorts. 

“Yes, Alpha, ‘m sorry about that,” says Harley quickly- because how fast is that adrenaline response? How fast does it calm down? He has so many questions for Sam, for _Bruce_ , actually- and then he says to Peter, “So I’m sorry. I’m working on it.”

Peter looks up at him and sighs, “Climb up here, Steve’s got plenty of room and we’re almost done, anyway. I know you like this one.”

Harley hesitates and Tony reminds him, “Anything you want to do, pup. Anything,” giving him a little shake.

Harley would like to, he can imagine how good it would feel just by watching how relaxed Peter is, so he takes a deep breath and nods. Steve opens his left arm and gestures for Harley to snuggle in. Harley rolls his eyes a little but tries very hard not to think anything about how this is a little drippy, okay? He climbs in and tentatively rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve shifts, a little, and wraps his arm down around Harley’s hip, patting a couple of times. “Good pup, nice apology,” he murmurs, as Indiana Jones starts up again and the omega in the cage over the hot fire starts to scream again. 

Harley lets himself enjoy that praise and slowly stretches his bare feet down, to where Peter’s and Steve’s are all tangled up together. Steve’s leg lifts and traps his feet underneath it, tightly, shifting them closer, until they’re rubbing up against Peter’s. That feels good, too.

The movie plays on, Alpha Jones saving the day with his whip and his daring, and Harley thinks about how good everything feels as Tony settles on Peter’s other side and wraps around the younger omega, nuzzling Peter’s hair. The whole bed smells fantastic, vanilla and marshmallows, and apple pie and pineapple, all warm and sweet. The major emotion in the air is comfort-happiness.

So maybe Sam and Tony are right. Maybe it’s nice to be able to have everything he wants, even the stuff he didn’t used to want, before. Maybe a little drippy is okay.

  


~~~

  


Steve looks over at Tony, above the pup burrowed into his side, and raises an eyebrow, _Everything okay?_ Peter hadn’t even knocked before coming in, which was odd, usually the pup was a little more cautious around their bedroom. And then he’d yelled at Tony to go deal with Harley, who had allegedly said Peter was a slutty drippy omega just for walking around without shoes. He’d shouted that he didn’t have to listen to that and Omega should go fix it. He’d been pretty upset, immediately cuddling up to Steve and burying his face in Steve’s chest. After Steve had dealt with the fact that no one in his pack was going to walk around throwing tantrums, he’d apologized very sweetly and then mumbled a bunch about how Harley needed to go home, back to hickville, but Steve could tell his heart wasn’t really into it. Poor pup. New packmates are never an easy adjustment, and Harley came with a bunch of bad training that made it even harder.

Steve was just really grateful that Tony’d chosen Plan B: Movie Snuggles instead of Plan A: Sex, honestly, because embarrassed marshmallow was really hard to clear out of his nose.

Tony rolls his eyes back, _Jesus Christ, Steve, everything’s fine, you big mother hen_. Steve grins at him and Tony rolls his eyes again and nods at the movie. _Watch the damn movie, missed my favorite part_ , Steve translates, smiling a little at the way Tony’s lips twitch with the tiniest pout. He squeezes his armful of omega and realizes he’s probably the only person in the whole world at this exact moment who is so completely covered in pouty omega male geniuses. There are a lot of things about the future he thinks are broken and wrong but this moment is kind of awesome, he’ll admit it.

The movie ends, and all three of them seem to be in a better mood. Steve ventures, “Almost time for the meeting, anyone have any last minute drama they want to throw around, while I’m not distracted and can give you my full attention?”

All three of them roll their eyes and huff at him, it’s adorable.

“Okay,” he chuckles. “Just wanted to make sure you got the chance.”

Tony snorts and informs him, “Oh, if we decide we want to drama, we will make our _own_ chances, thank you so very much, you big scary not-at-all-dramatic Alpha.” The two pups nod once in solidarity with their Omega and it’s about the cutest thing Steve has ever seen in his life. “Let’s go,” announces Tony. “I want to make a batch of muffins.”

“You do?” asks Peter, surprised. Steve counts days and decides he’s a little surprised, too.

“Yes, I do,” says Tony firmly. “Because I am a grown ass omega and if I want to bake literally no one is going to stop me. Omegas get to do what they _want_.”

Steve chuckles and says, “Well, _I’m_ not going to stop you, I love your muffins.”

“How come he can language all he wants?” whines Harley, scooting from the bed. 

Steve snorts, “Look, when you smell as good as he smells, we’ll talk about extra privileges, okay, pup?”

Tony beams back at him as the two boys make gagging noises together. “Why, _thank_ you, Alpha,” he coos, in his sweetest tone. It goes straight to Steve’s hindbrain, every single time, and wraps itself around the base of his dick. He rolls his shoulders and knows he’s flushing a bright red, but damn if Tony doesn’t absolutely have the power to make him pant, all these years after that hot first kiss.

They troop out, his omega men, and he trails behind them, enjoying the view. It’s not often that Tony takes over the kitchen barefoot, but Steve’s not missing a minute of it, he doesn’t care how Neanderthal it is. 

He’s joined in the kitchen at the breakfast bar by a bemused Clint, who asks, “So, is this show for you, or-?”

“Listen, Legolas,” snaps Tony, pulling up short and pointing a finger in the beta’s face. “I’m not kicking you out of here because I think you’re cute today, you’ve _been_ cute all day so far, but my patience for dumbassery is at its final apex and it is ready to crash and so help me God, if you think I need to bake to get him to watch my every move, I will throw him into rut and give you a free demo of how I keep my Alpha riveted, you hear me?” He’s banging open cupboards and drawers, collecting his supplies as he berates Clint, shoving the younger two omegas out of his way. “Where the _fuck_ did my good spatula go?” He demands, as Clint blinks and then snickers.

“Right here,” offers Peter in an awestruck tone, sliding open a drawer and handing the bright red spatula to Tony.

“Okay. Harley, two cups of flour, in the sifter, chop chop, lollipop. You-“ he points the spatula at Peter, who freezes. “Oven 350.”

He glares at the mixing bowl a moment and then declares, “Eggs!”

Steve’s seriously never been more turned on in this kitchen and a couple of years ago a shoeless Tony gave him a blowjob while he sat on that very counter. So that seals it, he’s a Neanderthal. Sue him.

  


~~~

  


The muffins smell mouthwateringly amazing in the oven, as the Avengers assemble in the living room. 

“I set the timer,” Peter tells Tony defensively, flopping into his usual spot on the sectional- Tony’s left side- to which Tony replies, “You better have, if those burn I am disowning you _and_ your why-don’t-we-use-paper-liners packsib.”

“I didn’t know,” protests Harley, coming back from putting away the two pairs of slippers that had caused a mini-fight with Peter moments before. Steve gets that the goal is for them to get comfortable with each other, but all the nipping back and forth is wearing on his nerves a bit. They’re too close in age and scent strength for these dominance issues to be clear cut, though, so he’s just going to have to grit his teeth while they figure it out, Steve supposes. He waves the pup over and indicates the space between him and Tony. It’ll be tight but he’d rather the pup get socialized as fast as possible, and that means close contact with a real, actual alpha. It’s not a hardship for Steve at all, really. “I never made muffins before,” continues Harley, aggrieved.

“And that is a three part tragedy,” Tony informs him, pulling the pup down and rubbing their cheeks together, releasing a happy/sated vanilla-pineapple mix that is incredibly delicious. Steve surreptitiously takes deep breaths because it shouldn’t smell that good, but it does. “Because you did so well! They are going to taste so good, who’s my little ommy?”

“Ew, ‘mega,” whines Harley, coloring, and pulling away to lean against Steve. Which is fine, as far as Steve’s concerned. That’s where the pup belongs right now.

“No, _you_ , I can’t be my own little ommy,” teases Tony, laughing when the pup wrinkles his nose in disgust at the play on words.

“I counted,” announces Clint, vaulting the sectional’s arm at an angle and stepping on the ottoman to launch himself into the loveseat where Natasha is seated with Bruce in front of her on the floor. “And there are enough for some of us to have second helpings, so I need you to listen to me. Harley, I was your heatpartner, and I took such good care of you, remember that? Peter, who covered for you last night? Who made sure we all got out of the ballroom and home safe with all of our clothes on? And Tony, I was so good in the kitchen, I didn’t make one single comment, not one, and I think that deserves some positive reinforcement."

“I’ll positively reinforce you one,” growls Steve. “Everyone gets one and then the ‘megas can have the four extra muffins, Clint.”

“Oh damn, you counted, too,” sighs Clint, sinking back into the couch.

“It was a good try,” Natasha tells him, nuzzling his neck. He tilts his chin so she can get both sides and then they both sit up, brightly attentive, as Steve clears his throat. It never takes more than that, no matter what size crowd, for Steve to pull attention. Just a little throat clearing. It still amazes him.

“Let’s plan how to get him,” he says simply. “Pups, what data do you have?”

Peter looks at Harley and then waves a hand in the air, asking JARVIS for a screen. 

They go through the available data three times. It’s a good collection, they’ve done good work, and Steve starts to see the lines of where there might be a pattern to draw from, in the future. It’s not there, yet, there’s still some information missing, but he can see the shadow shape of it, and he agrees with Harley’s estimate that it’s been going on for- well. For a lot longer than just Tony’s parents’ deaths. Natasha has spent the morning wracking her brain and writing up her own anecdotes about him, the Winter Soldier, and there’s just not much to go on. 

“But we’re sure he’s Alpha?” asks Steve, finally.

All three of their subject matter experts exchange a glance and then nod. Peter, ever the little scientist, adds, “I mean, as sure as we can be without an exam.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense, though,” argues Harley half-heartedly, “because he definitely did something to those guys in the video, and I don’t think, well. It doesn’t look like omega voice. They’re definitely responding to an order, not a coax.”

“Well, goody,” says Tony sarcastically. Steve agrees.

“Harley, you keep doing data work on this. Would like you to report in daily, even if there’s no news. Just crunch the numbers the same way you did here, see if anything new falls together,” Steve tells the pup, and watches him straighten with the responsibility and frown a little. “Peter, you put one foot in Jersey solo, with an alpha assassin running around loose, and I will not be held responsible for my spike in anger.”

“No, Alpha,” says Peter immediately. “I won’t. I _won’t_.” Steve blows out a breath and sniffs for marshmallow and den, trying to get his hindbrain to calm down. The pup is in the den. He’s denned, he’s safe. Relax, nerves.

“All right, let’s talk traps,” says Tony excitedly. “What would we even use for bait?”

“I mean, he’s an alpha,” snorts Clint. “Give him a horny teenage omega.” He gestures at the selection on display on the couch.

Harley snarls back, “That’s discrimination and probably workplace harassment, too,” and Peter nods firmly. Steve glances at Tony, whose lips are twitching, and the omega says mildly, “If we need a honeypot, let’s pick the omega who actually did take down most of Jersey with a heat once, okay? Leave the pups out of it.”

Bruce chuckles, “Oh my God, I forgot about that.”

“It factored heavily in his dossier at SHIELD,” admits Natasha, a slightly proud smile on her face as she leans forward and threads a hand through Bruce’s hair.

Harley shifts and mutters, “You took down Jersey, Omega? With a _heat_?”

“I absolutely did not, you know nothing, you are never to take down a major metropolis with an irresponsibly rebellious outdoor heat cycle or so help me, I will have Alpha explain about using your omega superpowers only for the benefit of humanity. And he can talk about that subject for _weeks_ , pup, I’ve heard most of the lecture, it’s really impressive,” Tony tells Harley, his eyes twinkling. 

Harley’s slow, amazed smile is as cute as Peter’s proud one, just beyond him. All three of the omegas wiggle a little, and even Bruce across the room looks a little smug. Steve and Natasha share one of their _so-cute-am-I-right_ glances and then Sam’s clearing his throat to say, “Well, honeypot aside, if this guy has connections to the Red Room and Hydra, who’s pulling his choke chain these days? Neither of those two organizations are fully functional anymore.”

“Well, Hydra,” says Steve dismissively. “If you leave even one behind, they’ll be back.” He doesn’t mind the thought, he’d love to have a nice Hydra nest to jump into and start punching, right now. This assassin is turning out to be _complicated_ , Hydra’s _easy_.

“Bloodthirsty,” comments Tony under his breath and Steve accepts the designation with a twitch of his lips.

“I will patrol New Jersey,” suggests Natasha, with a nod toward Steve. “I remember his scent, it was much like those chocolate bars you make, Bruce.”

“What, _brownies_?” gasps Peter, and Steve catches just a hint of horrified marshmallow, just enough that realizes the kid’s not joking with that gasp, he’s actually, for-real _horrified_. “Oh, that is not okay, bad guys should definitely not smell like _brownies_.”

Everyone makes noises of amused agreement but Steve frowns. “Sounds like this guy ain’t all bad, though,” he muses. Bucky had been brownie-scented, not that it means this guys is anything like Bucky, but still. If nothing else, that makes Steve want to help the guy a little, see if he can be brought over, like Natasha. Innocence-by-association. Natasha’s sober eyes stare back at him as she nods. 

“He’s a tool, a weapon,” she sighs, her voice sad, and Steve, for one, is glad he’s not sitting closer to her because morose buttered toast is the worst. “And I would like for him to be offered the same chance to be something… more.”

Clint bumps his shoulder against hers and says, “Pack the baklava, and aim for his collar bone,” and they share a wicked and fond smile. “It’s how I got her,” he tells the room at large proudly. They’ve all heard the story before, so the chuckle that responds to his statement is fond and pulls Natasha’s lips upward.

“Aim for whatever works,” sighs Tony. “We done, here? Harley’s gonna keep researching, check in with Steve daily, Natasha’s gonna hit pavement in New Jersey, try to scent him.”

“I can add him to our weekly update,” suggests Sam. “Until we get enough data to identify a pattern.”

“Do it,” says Steve, standing. “Natasha, can you take Harley for a few hours while I go for my run with Sam? We have a whole day in front of us, folks, let’s tackle that to-do list.” Harley doesn’t make any kind of whiny, demurring noise, which Steve is actually pretty impressed with. The pup’s been taking to the retraining process pretty well, so far.

“More coffee,” agrees Tony, rising and pulling both pups up with him as Natasha rises to collect Harley. He slides his gaze up and over to Steve and announces, “The muffins are probably cool enough, kitchen first for everybody.”

Clint whoops, but there’s no mad scramble for the kitchen under Tony’s watching Omega eye, just an orderly shuffle of feet that Steve joins calmly. He’ll be the first to eat muffin even if he takes five minutes to go the twenty feet to the counter, there’s no need to bound off and try to be first. Being Alpha definitely has some amazing perks, above and beyond being the priority teddy bear for mildly-traumatized pack omegas.

  


~~~

  


Tony keeps a close eye on the Pack as they meander into the kitchen. This is one of those Things that packs do that modern, mentally healthy teams very definitely _don’t_ , and it always adds such an illicit thrill to passing out his baked goods. He stands by the counter, where the lemon poppyseed muffins sit on a cooling rack, and surveys the family gathered there. Everyone looks just a little Oliver-Twist-Please-Sir, which is perfect, that’s exactly the right mood, these muffins are his _special recipe_ , and it’s good for Harley to see that omega things can have serious status, even in this modern, socially healthy world.

He selects one from the cooling rack and passes it to Steve, who smiles in delight and takes a bite immediately, no waiting. “So good,” he announces, and Clint makes a small hungry noise. Natasha, of course, is next, and she takes a bite, as well, murmuring, “Thank you, Omega,” as if she knows the whole point of this exercise. Which, given her freaky-spooky-good skills at connecting the dots, she probably does. It’s exactly what Tony wants, so he intones back at her, “The pleasure was mine, Alpha,” and feet shuffle around the kitchen as the betas, Bruce, and Peter pick up his cue.

Steve holds out a negligent hand for another muffin and when Tony hands him one, he passes it to Sam casually and says, “Here, Omega made this. Have some.” It’s not quite the formal wording, but it’s actually, that’s fine, it took forever to convince him to _act_ _casual_ , Tony’s not going to upset that programming for a lesson for Harley.

“Thank you, Omega,” says Sam, taking a bite and closing his eyes in pleasure.

“The pleasure was mine, Beta,” Tony informs him.

Natasha holds out a delicate hand and he places two muffins in it, expecting that she can figure out how to juggle it. She turns to Clint and deposits it into his grabby hands, saying, “Take, and eat. Omega provides,” which must be a direct translation from the Russian, Tony guesses.

“Thank you, Omega,” says Clint, getting the words out before he shoves half of it in his mouth and makes a little grunt of pleasure.

“The pleasure was mine, Beta,” agrees Tony.

She passes Bruce his with a sweet smile for the omega, “Take, and eat, mine. Omega provides.”

“Thank you, Omega,” murmurs Bruce, around his first small bite.

“The pleasure was mine, Natasha’s own,” says Tony, which is super formal, but it also makes Bruce smile sweetly before taking his next bite. Worth it. He can retrain Steve in casualness if necessary.

Peter stands absolutely still as Steve holds out another hand, but Harley shuffles his feet a little. Tony frowns, thinking through the implications of Harley potentially omega-challenging Peter for a higher rank, and then dismisses it. Peter’s got his voice, Peter scented first, there’s no effing way Harley would win, especially with his current semi-disgraced status. He hands Steve a muffin and absolutely loves the way Steve considers it, making the pups squirm a bit. It’s hilarious and 100% exactly how he’d have handled the situation, in Steve’s shoes. Steve quirks a smirk at him and then passes the muffin to Peter, saying, “From Omega’s hands to yours, my pup.” Not quite the full formal, so he’s still making the effort to be casual. He’s so getting kissed for that effort, Tony decides.

“Thank you, Omega,” says Peter, his voice and scent relieved and grateful. He takes a quick bite and settles back on his heels while Harley huffs an impatient breath. 

“The pleasure was mine,” Tony assures him with a smile. “Well, ours,” he amends, and Peter snorts back at him, eyes twinkling.

Steve raises an eyebrow at Harley and the pup shifts, his scent shifting just a bit to confused and wary. “You want one?” he asks Harley, which, okay, the pup is not in semi-disgrace after all, Steve’s going full-disgraced, then. Well, sure, that’ll work, too, thinks Tony, it was a pretty sassy thing to say last night, and then there was the omega-shaming after breakfast, and all the snapping between the pups over the slippers, sure. He can see full disgrace.

Harley nods, and then, because he’s a half-trained snot but not a bad pup, he mutters, “Please, Alpha?”

Steve hums, clearly enjoying his own muffin while he thinks about it. Tony would like to _have a muffin_ , though, so he shifts his weight, just enough to remind Steve that _his mate_ is waiting, too. Steve takes another bite, the absolute bastard, and then holds out a slow hand. Tony presses a muffin into it and does not sigh and does not mutter, _Jesus, you drama queen_ , but he knows it’s successfully implied in the gesture when Steve’s lips twitch.

Steve holds it out to Harley so that the pup has to reach for it with tentative fingers. He releases the muffin to Harley after holding it an extra second and says, “From Omega’s hands to mine to yours, my pup.”

“Thank you, Alpha. Thank you, Omega,” says Harley humbly. Good pup. Exactly the right tone, he’ll be out of disgrace in no time with form like that. And probably back into it tomorrow, the little shit, concedes Tony’s conscience.

Tony nods at Harley, trying for solemn and probably failing, but it’s the effort that counts. He tells the pup, “The pleasure was mine,” and waits, his heart pounding just a little because, sure this is a stupid little thing that Packs do sometimes, when Omega provides a treat, but it’s also kind of… not stupid at all.

Steve reaches behind Tony for the cooling rack and plucks a muffin from the top. He considers it carefully and then holds it out in front of Tony. Tony shifts, because _you gigantic drama queen, dammit Steve,_ and Steve smiles, because he knows it, he’s deliberately teasing Tony. See if Tony ever makes his favorite muffin ever again, _what an asshole_. Chocolate muffins from here on out, for sure. With _nuts_. “My own,” Steve says slowly, like he’s savoring the words, he probably is savoring the words, _what an asshole_ , “from my hands back into yours, with our full gratitude.”

Tony snatches the muffin and takes a bite already. Fuck if it’s not more delicious this way, somehow. Stupid hindbrain. Totally worth it, though, it tastes amazing. Stupid words, making it taste like victory and success and home and love and _what an asshole_ , Steve knows it, too.

“Go team,” states Clint around his last bite.

“So good,” agrees Sam, nodding. “Tony, these might be my favorite now.”

“You said that last time, with the French silk pie,” Peter protests, wiping crumbs off his lips before taking another bite and closing his eyes a little. Ceremonial sweets always tasted overwhelmingly better to Tony as a pup, too, although he can only remember a handful of times when he hadn’t been in full disgrace.

“You can make French silk pie?” asks Harley, clearly impressed.

“He even does the little curls of chocolate on top,” Clint tells him enthusiastically, shifting his weight and clearly ready for everyone to be done so he can leave, but Tony is not a savage and he’s not going to bolt his food, no matter how insanely delicious the muffin is. And it is insanely delicious, absolutely insanely, mouth-wateringly delicious. Stupid _hindbrain_. “It’s crazy good.”

Tony accepts the compliments as his due with a nod of his head in acknowledgement.

“We have the best Omega,” sighs Peter happily. Tony preens as the rest of the kitchen hums agreement. Steve leans over and kisses Tony’s temple, smelling of proud apple pie, and Tony doesn’t even shoo him away. It’s fine, they can all enjoy a sappy moment before heading out to practice killing people and build better bombs or investigate mother-murdering menaces or whatever it is that Sam does with his days. They can just enjoy this, it’s one of the things they get to do even if it’s not fashionably _healthy_ and _modern-minded_. They save the world a lot, the world owes them this, at least. Tony bites into his muffin again and watches Clint twitch impatiently, waiting for everyone to be done. He chews thoughtfully, enjoying the explosion of flavors on his tongue, enjoying the approval, enjoying the certainty of Pack all around him.

“When Darcy gets back,” mumbles Peter around his last bite, licking his fingers, and Tony’s probably going to have to explain to him at some point that, okay, omegas can do whatever they want, but standing barefoot in a kitchen _licking baked goods off your fingers_ with four of your regular heatpartners looking on _is_ pushing it a bit, “-she’s going to be so jealous, lemon poppy is her favorite.”

“Too bad, so sad, don’t agree to visit Asgard with your alpha,” quips Clint, bouncing a bit, now, eyes glued to Tony’s rapidly disappearing muffin.

“I don’t think Thor asked,” says Steve mildly.

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” sighs Sam. “You should have a chat about-”

“Oh, no, you want him to act like a modern Earthling alpha, you do the work,” interrupts Tony, glaring at the beta just a little. The last time Steve had tried to _have a chat_ with Thor about the modern, chartered rules and rights, it had backfired into a week of full Neanderthal behavior out of both of them, and Tony’s not having it. Sam can do his own dirty work.

“That was really good,” sighs Bruce.

“Omegas get an extra one,” Harley tells him, sounding smug. “Alpha’s orders.”

“Ooh!” says Bruce, looking at Tony hopefully. Tony nods and tosses him another muffin, smiling smugly when Clint sighs forlornly.

Sometimes, it’s good to be Omega. Tony polishes off the last delicious bite and thinks savagely that this may be the best muffin he’s ever made, what the fuck, _stupid hindbrain._

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm just having so much fucking fun.


End file.
